


Change History

by IrelandSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrelandSpades/pseuds/IrelandSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wish I had never met you, John Hamish Watson." Sherlock will get his wish and everything that came after it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change History

The door to 221 Baker Street closed silently behind him as he stared at the entry hall and the stairs going up to the next floor. He could hear the quiet noises of Mrs. Hudson’s telly. He wasn’t interested in dealing with her at the moment. He was more interested in the older man up the stairs in 221B. Sherlock licked his dry lips and quietly ascended the stairs. Two and a half years since he had last seen John Watson. Two and a half years since he had last seen his lover. Mycroft had stressed caution when he approached the Doctor. Sherlock didn’t need caution. His Doctor would understand his reasonings. But, yes, he was nervous.

Reaching the landing, Sherlock tilted his head slightly and listened closely. Soft noises from the telly but no other sounds of activity in the sitting room. A soft sound to his left caused him to tilt his head again to the other side and a shadow moved across the door to the kitchen. Sherlock stepped forward and gently pushed open the door to the sitting room and took in the familiar sitting room. Its appearance struck a painful and thrilling cord with him. Oh, how he had missed this sitting room. Movement to his left drew his attention and he saw John Watson walk into the sitting room carrying a mug of tea. A sound must have slipped through Sherlock’s lips because John looked up in surprise. John didn’t gasp or cry out, he just stared blankly. A slow blink indicated he was trying to ascertain if he was dreaming or not.

“John.”

The mug slipped from John’s deadened grip and broke into shards and scattered liquid across the floor. Sherlock stepped forward but stopped when he saw John jerk away. Paleness, elevated pulse, tremor in his hand, trembling over his entire body actually. High risk of eventual unconsciousness.

“Sh...Sherlock? Wha-How?”

“I’m not dead. You’re not imagining or dreaming me,” Sherlock calmly said and reached out a hand towards John.

“How are you not dead?”

And there are the threads of anger.

“Moriarty threatened everyone important to me. He would have killed Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you, if I hadn’t jumped. I’ve been breaking up his organization since then. I’m done...I’m finally done. I came back to you.”

John’s face was starting to close down until he was blank. Sherlock hated a blank John; he couldn’t read the expressions because they were completely wiped from his face. Sherlock started to realize this wasn’t going to progress like he hoped.

“I watched you fall. I checked your pulse...you were dead,” John snarled and his spine started to straighten as his shoulders tensed.

“It was all an illusion. Mycroft helped-”

“Mycroft? Who all knew about this illusion? Who knew you were still alive?”

Sherlock paused, debating how much he should tell John. He never tried to consciously lie to John but sometimes he did it instinctively to protect the older man.

“Mycroft...Molly...and a few of my homeless network. I needed them to keep an eye on you.”

“Keep an eye on me? So, then they would report to you how much I grieved over you? How I cried at your tombstone? I can’t believe you did this,” John snapped and started pacing slightly.

Sherlock mentally flailed around trying to salvage this reunion. John was muttering under his breath and running a hand through his hair. His limp was back and he had lost weight.

“I did this to save you, John.”

John stopped his pacing and stared at Sherlock.

“No, you only did it for yourself. You did it so you could go play genius without us pedestrian individuals weighing you down.”

Sherlock’s anger was starting to flicker to life and it was directed at John. Why couldn’t he see the good intentions. “Not pedestrian. Dull, at times. Ordinary, yes. But not pedestrian.”

“Oh great, so now we’re dull and ordinary. Sorry, you felt the need to try and save us,” John snapped and kicked aside a large chunk of broken ceramic.

“I did save you,” Sherlock snarled and took a step forward.

“No, you saved us from one type of hell and thrust us into another ring of purgatory. Lestrade was demoted, transferred to Bristol and stuck behind a desk. Mrs. Hudson was so broken up about you that she suffered a stroke at your funeral. I’ve been having nightmares nightly about your fall. My Afghanistan nightmares were a walk in the bloody park compared to the nightmares of you falling and no matter what I do I can’t stop or catch you. I think we all can agree that it might have been better if you had let him kill us. Then we wouldn’t have been dragged through all this so you could go and play.”

“I did what I thought was right. Of all the options presented to me, this was the least objectionable one. I had to save you.”

John buried his hands into his hair and tilted his head back to dryly laugh.

“Save me? Sometimes I wish I had never met you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, well the feeling is mutual.”

It was silent as that statement hung thickly in the air. John dropped his hands and looked at Sherlock. Tears glimmered in John’s eyes but Sherlock was beyond caring at that moment. He was exhausted, starving, been on the run for too long and yearned to just let go. Without his consent, the words continued to stream from his mouth.

“Yes, he also threatened Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade but you, you were the important one. The one that would have broken me. I would have grieved for the others, but you; losing you would have shattered me. So, all of this was for you. Sleeping in rat holes. Infected injuries until I was delirious with fever. Not sleeping in the same place for more than two nights. Killing in cold blood. I wouldn’t have had to do any of that if it wasn’t for you. So, yes, the feeling is mutual,” Sherlock ranted, gripping his hair with his fists and feeling the sharp pain at the sensation.

“Then say it, Sherlock. Say it and mean it,” John said softly, watching the manic genius.

Sherlock dropped his hands and glared at John. “I wish I had never met you, John Hamish Watson.”

“Fine.”

John’s blue eyes shifted to a shocking pale blue and he started muttering under his breath. He spread his hands out wide as the flat started trembling under their feet. Sherlock wobbled and tried to find his balance. His fury was gone and now there was only shock and surprise. Looking back at John, he watched as John’s mutterings got louder and Sherlock suddenly knew he had to stop John.

“John, wait!”

John’s hands snapped together and the clap was like a crack of thunder. The amplified shock wave expanded from John and threw Sherlock against the wall. The plaster cracked under the force and Sherlock collapsed into a puddle of water. Shaking his head, Sherlock pressed a hand to his head and softly groaned at the throbbing pain. Cracking his eyes open, he stared at the muddy ground under his knees and hands. How did this amount of mud get into their flat?

Lifting his head, he squeezed his eyes shut at the resulting pain and slowly opened his eyes again. Baker Street was gone. He was in a tube line. Abandoned by the sounds of it, he mused and slowly climbed to his feet. How did he get from Baker Street to an abandoned tube station?

“John?” he called out and heard only the replying echo.

Walking to the nearby platform, he hoisted himself up and looked around the dimly lit station. The tile on the walls told him he was at Mark Lane Station along the District and Circle Lines. Looking around in mild confusion, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and grimaced. The electronic was destroyed from his impact with the wall. Slipping it back into his pocket, he started searching for an exit from the closed tube station. Breaking through a flimsy wooden barrier, he climbed the stairs and emerged into the sunlight of a busy street. Glancing around, he spotted NSY a few blocks away and started walking that way. He could hunt down Lestrade and use his mobile to call John or Mycroft. It was probably best to give John some breathing room until he calmed down. Mulling over everything that happened back at the flat, he didn’t notice the odd looks he was getting as he crossed the lobby of the NSY. Well, he was accustomed to odd looks especially now that he has come back from the dead. Stepping out of the elevator, Sherlock stopped and suddenly remember what John had said back at the flat. Lestrade had been demoted and transferred; he wouldn’t be at NSY. Just as Sherlock was thinking that he saw the silvery grey haired DI open his office door to yell for a file. He must have been brought back from Bristol. Good, Lestrade had some semblance of intelligence.

Sherlock strode for the DI and again sensed the odd looks he was getting. Lestrade looked up at the dark form approaching him and jerked in shock.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock nodded and breezed past him and entered the small office.

Sherlock’s eyes swept the desk and noted several new differences. Apparently, he and the wife were giving it another chance.

“Sh-Sherlock?” Lestrade stuttered as he slowly entered the office.

“Yes. Sorry to surprise you at the office, Lestrade, but I wanted to let you know that I’m not dead and can help with any cases that I’m sure you need help with. I’m sure Anderson has been muddling up the forensics like usual. Where can I start?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lestrade dumbfounded expression. He didn’t look as surprised as he should have been to see someone come back from the dead. There were new scars on his face and hands, Sherlock noted and narrowed his gaze. They looked old; older than within the past three and a half years. Lestrade didn’t have those scars before he jumped and they looked older than they should be. Lestrade slowly pulled his mobile from his pocket and set it on the corner of his desk.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? Does Mycroft know you’re here?” Lestrade asked calmly as he circled his desk but watched Sherlock closely.

“Back in London, yes, but not here in your office. Well, he might with his cameras but I didn’t tell him,” Sherlock replied and tried to understand why Lestrade was acting so wary of him.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

That brought Sherlock up quickly. Medication? What medication?

“What medication? The only medicine I take is what John prescribes and that’s more so he can shove it down my throat because he knows I won’t take it willingly.”

“Who’s John, Sherlock? Is he one of your new nurses? Or a new Doctor?”

“New nurse? New Doctor? Have you lost your mind? Doctor John Watson, my flat mate, my lover. You go out and have drinks with him on occasion,” Sherlock snapped, panic started to crawl up his spine.

Lestrade showed none of the signs of lying to him. And he wasn’t that good at it to begin with. He actually believed what he was saying. He had no idea who John was. Sherlock locked down on his emotions. He had to find out what was going on. Sherlock’s eyelids narrowed and he slowly approached the desk.

“Lestrade, this is very important. The case A Study in Pink, who came with me to the crime scene of Jennifer Wilson?” Sherlock demanded and watched Lestrade grip the desk as he leaned over it.

“A Study in Pink? Is that an old case?”

“Yes! The case of the cabbie that offered the victims two pills. Jennifer Wilson wrote ‘Rache’ in the floor before she died. It was the name of her stillborn daughter, Rachel. The password for her phone to get her GPS. John Watson came with me to that crime scene.”

Lestrade’s face fell in sorrow and he swallowed thickly before reply quietly. “You came alone to that scene. There was no one with you.”

The verbal confirmation came as a shock to Sherlock. He staggered away from the desk and couldn’t stop the expression of shock that filled his face. There was also the expression of thick grief on Lestrade’s face as he stared sadly at Sherlock.

“I remember that case. It was the last one you ever came to, before…”

Sherlock’s attention narrowed down on his words. ‘Last case you ever came to’ banged around his head before he realized that Lestrade’s phone was active; in the middle of a call. He was moving a quarter of a second later and grabbed one of the chairs. Pivoting sharply, he swung the chair around and slammed it into the glass wall of Lestrade’s office. The glass spiderwebbed and shattered as everyone ducked to avoid the shards. Sherlock sprinted through the glass debris and bypassed the group of officers stacked at Lestrade’s door ready to knock it down. His sudden departure took them for surprise and he managed to avoid being snagged. Leaping over desks, he ignored the yells trailing him as he exploded through the door to the stairwell. He flew down the stairs, taking the first three steps in one stride and then leaping to the next landing. Mentally mapping out his path through NSY, Sherlock exited the stairwell on the third floor and sprinted down the hallway. ‘There!’ he mentally screamed and saw the large metal access panel at waist height. It was the only laundry shoot in NSY. They needed to wash the blankets and sheets that the officers used when they had long shifts. The shoot would dump him out in the basement and from there there was a hidden sub basement hallway that led to a nearby building’s basement. Pulling open the hatch, he dove into the shoot and fell the remaining three floors and into the basement. The laundry hamper positioned at the bottom of the shoot wasn’t designed to take almost twelve stone of full grown male. It tipped abruptedly and ejected Sherlock against the nearby stone wall. A choked cry escaped his lips as his left shoulder took the abuse and he felt and heard a distinctive pop. Dislocated shoulder, he noted painfully but scrambled to his feet. Jogging past the silent washer and dryer, he accessed the hidden door and slid through the gap before pulling it closed behind him. Leaning against the wall, he breathed through the pain and gripped his shoulder in the dark. He rolled his eyes up to the dark ceiling and bumped his head against the wall behind him. He was beyond confused. Lestrade did not recognize John’s name. There were subtle differences in Lestrade’s office that he knew wouldn’t have occurred within the last two years without Mycroft telling him. Mycroft. He had to get to Mycroft. He would know what was going on. He also had medical staff on hand to help with his shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, he cradled his injured arm against his torso and shuffled along the dark hallway. After eight minutes of walking, he reached the other door that was outlined in light from the other basement. Listening closely to the other side, he carefully shifted the locks and pulled the door open. He emerged into a dimly lit basement stacked with storage boxes. No one was there to witness his appearance as he quickly secured the door and stepped back to assure himself that it was invisible from the basement side.

Sneaking out of the building was easy and he quickly threw up a hand to catch a nearby cabbie. Giving them Mycroft’s office address, he sat back and gripped his arm tightly as his mind replayed everything he had seen since landing in the abandoned tube station. When he mentally walked through the NSY’s lobby, he froze the scene and glanced around. There was something that his subconscious was noticing as important. There! John had shattered that vase when a rapist had picked his handcuffs and made a run for it. He had head butted Sherlock to daze him and sprinted for the door. John just happened to be in the right place and the right time and grabbed the vase to swing it right in front of the man’s face. That vase should have been broken; irreparable but it wasn’t.

Sherlock blinked to clear his vision and noticed the cab was nearing Mycroft’s office. Did this mean that John no longer existed? Did that sniper’s bullet actually kill him in Afghanistan? Or did the bullet never touch him? Was he even in London or still in the war? These questions followed Sherlock out of the cab and into the nondescript building. The security guard didn’t glance at him and no one was at the reception desk. This had to be Mycroft’s doing. He must have told Lestrade to pretend that he didn’t know Sherlock. There was always a logical reason.

He shoved the door open with a soft grunt and immediately glared at the man seated behind the desk. He immediately took in the slight differences in this Mycroft and the one that he had left behind. But he ignored them.

“What the hell have you done, Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s fury overwhelmed all his other observations and it was sadly at the last second that he noticed other people in the room. He was tackled from behind and hit the floor with a gasp. His shoulder screamed angrily at him as hands held him down and kept him pinned. A sharp pain at his neck immediately told him what was happening. Something was very wrong. Mycroft and he didn’t get along but there was nothing that would usually prompt this type of response. He had to get through to Mycroft. Something to show that he wasn’t the Sherlock he was acquainted with. Something that happened when he had John; something that this Sherlock wouldn’t know about.

“Mycroft,” he gasped, feeling the drug race through his system.

A pair of polished dress shoes came into his line of sight which was drifting in and out of focus. Only another minute or two until the drug pulled him under.

“MOD plot...Coventry...US and UK...fool the terrorist cell...number dead but...no deaths...please.”

The darkness swallowed him.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Mycroft stared down at the unconscious man on the floor of his office. He had just gotten the fast response team into his office when Sherlock had stormed in. DI Lestrade had given him enough of a head’s up to prepare but nothing could have prepared him for what Sherlock had said. There should have been no way that Sherlock knew about that plot. He wasn’t allowed access to news in any form where he was. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he got a closer look at Sherlock.

Anthea appeared next to him suddenly and leaned down to speak quietly in his ear.

“I just spoke with the facility and Sherlock is in his room. He hasn’t been moved and his presence was visibly confirm by a reliable source.”

Mycroft nodded slowly without taking his eyes off the Sherlock in front of him. The men waited for a word from Mycroft. Mycroft took in the healthy appearance of his brother and the longer hair that he was use to. He also noted the odd angle of his shoulder and slowly reached out to feel the flesh. His lips pressed tightly when he immediately recognized the dislocated shoulder and regretted the manner of his capture. Jostling the fabric had allowed a broken mobile to slide out from Sherlock’s pocket. Mycroft picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

“Get a doctor to look at his shoulder and for other injuries. Have IT salvage everything from the phone and get it back to me as soon as possible,” Mycroft said and held the mobile over his shoulder for Anthea to take.

He stood and glanced one last time over Sherlock before turning back to his desk. He sensed the team start to prepare to move Sherlock and at one sharp word from Mycroft they froze.

“Move him to the couch and have a doctor look him over here. He’s not to leave my sight.”

The men hesitated before one spoke up. “Would you like him restrained, sir?”

Mycroft hesitated, replaying the short scene when Sherlock had entered his office. “No.”

Mycroft sat at his desk as the men followed his orders. He had one ear tuned to the doctor as he looked over Sherlock and Mycroft worked on his computer and searched for one Doctor John Watson. Lestrade had said Sherlock was adamant to find this Watson and was startled when Lestrade acknowledged he didn’t know him. From everything Mycroft found, this Watson wasn’t anyone important. No connections to Sherlock or the Holmes family that Mycroft could find. Lestrade also mentioned that Sherlock said Watson was his lover. The suggestion that Sherlock could actually have found a lover that he readily claimed and such a close confidante was unbelievable. He cringed slightly when the doctor popped Sherlock’s shoulder back into the socket with an audible pop. Anthea appeared again with a thick folder and the damaged phone. She pulled one document out and placed it on top of the folder as she handed it to her boss. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the image. It was a photo of himself glaring at the person that took the photo but what was more shocking was that despite his perfect memory, Mycroft did not recall this scenario ever occurring. The background was obviously a homey flat with a large chair and a partial kitchen; on the mantle to the right was a skull. Anthea turned and left his office, closing the door behind him to leave the Holmes alone. Mycroft stood and poured himself a healthy dose of Scotch and started to flip through the file.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock groaned as consciousness slowly trickled back to him. His shoulder hurt as well as his head. He could feel the pressure around his injured shoulder and carefully flexed the arm. Yup, bound to his body so some sort of shoulder injury. Groaning again at the pain in his head he huffed and tried to figure out what John may have given him. He really had to forbid John from ever using that medicine again. It caused some really bad dreams; nightmares really, he mused silently and brought up a hand to press the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“John! Whatever you gave me needs to be put on the banned list and the reason is fucked up dreams,” he yelled and cringed at the headache.

“Such language from a Holmes.”

Sherlock jolted into a sitting position and gasped as his free hand reached to the sore shoulder. His gaze darted around the office before settling on the elder Holmes leaning back against his desk starting at Sherlock. Sherlock licked his dry lips briefly and watched his brother.

“Do you know John Watson?”

“Prior to forty minutes ago? No. Had never heard of him,” Mycroft replied and Sherlock groaned as he leaned back on the sofa and let his head rest on the backrest.

“Do you recognize me, Mycroft?”

Sherlock knew it was a stupid question and he normally would have cringed at asking it but it had been a really bad day and didn’t want to make obvious assumptions.

“Yes, you look like my brother.”

Sherlock snorted softly. “‘Look like’. Great. I am your brother but something is very wrong.

“Something bad happened Mycroft and I don’t know what or how. But I think I caused it somehow. I told John that I wished we had never met and he did something. I woke up in an abandoned tube station and went to NSY. Lestrade had no clue who I was talking about and he was startled to see me there. Then how you reacted when I came in confirmed that something was wrong. I don’t know what’s happened,” Sherlock snarled at himself and lifted his head before standing slowly.

Mycroft watched him as he walked to the window and looked down at the dark street. He sighed before reaching behind him for the slim Chromebook and approached Sherlock.

“This is why Lestrade and I reacted the way we did when we saw you. Anyone else who knew you would react the same way. This is my brother.”

Sherlock accepted the Chromebook as Mycroft hit a key and a video started with audio. It was a minimally decorate bedroom with high ceilings and barred windows. Voices came from off camera but three figures appeared from the left corner. It was two nurses escorting a patient who shuffled along. They turned the patient towards the camera and Sherlock bit back a curse in shock. It was himself. But something wasn’t right. Realization dawned on him quickly. They were helping him eat. The food would dribble out of his mouth and they had to scoop it back in. The audio allowed him to hear himself ramble on about random words but there was no logic or sense behind them. His hair was much shorter, almost a buzz cut. He was rail thin; unhealthy thin even for him to admit. His shining intelligence; amazing deductive and observational powers; all were gone. The camera zoomed in on his face and his eyes were blank. Everything that made Sherlock Sherlock was gone. Nothing but a husk.

“The case you asked Lestrade about with Jennifer Wilson. The cabbie took you and offered you two pills. You took the wrong one. We got there in time to...keep you alive but...the damage was done.

“Severe cerebral hypoxia. Your brain was cut off from oxygen and cells started to die. You have the mind of a five year old on your good days. You are sometimes violent. Violent towards me especially. That was why you were sedated when you came here. We thought you were him but I see the differences now,” Mycroft said quietly and caught the Chromebook as it slipped from Sherlock’s deadened fingers.

Sherlock stumbled away and swallowed tightly but knew he would lose this small battle. Lunging towards Mycroft, he ignored how his brother jerked away but he couldn’t care about that now. Mycroft calmed when he saw Sherlock grab at the rubbish bin and vomit. Listening to the retching, Mycroft walked around his desk and opened a cabinet door to access the small refrigerator he kept there. He handed the chilled bottle of water to Sherlock as the younger man sagged limply against the side of his desk. He offered the box of tissues to Sherlock and watched as he cleaned his mouth before swishing a mouthful of water and spitting it into the bin. When he was sure Sherlock wasn’t going to vomit again he picked up the file folder and dropped it in front of Sherlock.

“Explain this to me...please.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s plea but disregarded it. This was not the time to be snarky. He reached out and flipped open the file. Inside were copies of texts and pictures that were originally on his mobile. The pictures ranged from crime scenes to scenes between John and Mycroft arguing about something. There was one shot of Sherlock sitting at his microscope and snarling at whatever he was seeing on the slide. There was another shot that John had caught an honest smile on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock stopped and picked up one of the pictures to stare at it. It was a picture he had taken of John and him laid out on the couch. John had fallen asleep spooning against Sherlock’s back. His arm was wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s chest and his nose was buried in the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock had taken the picture as a reminder to himself of what he had to come back to once he finished with Moriarty’s web. Sighing, he shifted until he could lean against the desk and braced his free arm on his bent knees.

“Can you pull CCTV archive video of Hyde Park on the 10th of October 2010? You’re looking for Mike Stamford.”

Mycroft paused before nodding and moving to his computer. He brought up the videos and ran facial recognition through the multiple feeds to find the feed that had Mike Stamford. Sherlock climbed to his feet and stood behind Mycroft as he enlarged the feed that showed Stamford sitting on a bench.

Sherlock shifted forward and pointed at the figure that just appeared at the top of the screen. The stature and cane told him that it was his John. “That’s John. I asked Mike Stamford earlier that day who would want me as a flatmate. Apparently, he bumped into John at the park and while they were talking John asked the same thing. ‘Who would want me as a flatmate?’ Mike brought John to St. Barts to meet me.”

Watching the video feed, Sherlock saw as John was intercepted by a jogger that bumped into him. He hit the dirt painfully as the jogger fussed over him. At the bottom of the screen, Mike Stamford’s head jerked up to look in the other direction. He smiled and stood while collecting his things to go and meet the person that had caught his attention. Mike walked away as John continued limping down the pathway. They never recognized each other. Never stopped to talk. Never brought John to meet Sherlock. John never helped with Jennifer Wilson. Never followed Sherlock and the cabbie. Didn’t shoot the cabbie. Didn’t stop Sherlock from taking that pill.

Sherlock stared blankly at the screen as the video feed paused. “John and Mike were classmates at Barts. That’s how they knew each other. John helped me with the case. He followed the cabbie and myself and shot the cabbie. I didn’t take the pill in my time stream. I wished I had never met John and he made it so. He undid all the good we did and this,” Sherlock motioned towards the Chromebook and Mycroft, “this is where we ended up.”

Sherlock stepped away from the desk and ran a hand through his hair.

“Apparently this Doctor John Watson had more of an impact on you than you originally anticipated.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t turn to look back at his brother. The past two and a half years suddenly crashed over him. The fear and concern for John. The stress of staying hidden and constantly changing identities. The blood that was on his hands from everything he had to do to keep his loved ones safe. The misplaced anger he had for John when his lover started yelling at him. He realized now that he should have let John yell and scream at him. Should have accepted the lecture after everything he had done. John had earned the right to be angry with him. Sherlock saw that now. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. Taking a shuddering breath, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to contain the tears that threatened to fall. He would not cry in front of Mycroft.

“How close were you to Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked quietly as he leaned back in his chair.

“Very close.”

“Were you happy?”

Sherlock scoffed and snapped his head up. “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. That’s what you told me, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly turned to look at Mycroft. The tears were still threatening but they didn’t matter anymore.

“Happier than I deserved to be, Mycroft. Happier than I deserved.”

Mycroft nodded and picked up another file from his desk. He stood and held it to Sherlock.

“The file on one Doctor John Hamish Watson.”

Sherlock reached out and slowly took the file Mycroft held out. The first few pages were data that Sherlock already knew. Studied at Barts then enrolled in RAMC. Served two tours then shot in shoulder. Nerve damage, severe infection; invalided home. Lived in London for a few weeks then moved to Surrey. Worked as a floating general practitioner around surrounding towns until...

The file slipped from Sherlock’s fingers and his knees gave out. Mycroft stepped forward and caught Sherlock as he started to crumple.

“Six hours ago...that’s when I appeared in this time stream. John is dead?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked slowly and wondered if this was how John felt when he jumped. Sherlock straightened.

“I need to see the body, Mycroft. I need to see it to confirm it.”

“Sherlock, the paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. I don’t know what you hope to find by viewing the body,” Mycroft said as Sherlock started to release the bandages keeping his arm restrained.

“Mycroft, just trust me, please. It is possible to fake your death convincingly. I’ve done it and John suffered for it. I stayed hidden for two and half years to finish what I needed to finish and everyone I love suffered for it,” Sherlock said and grabbed his coat from where it hung over a nearby chair arm.

Mycroft sighed and led Sherlock out of the office. Sherlock grimaced as his shoulder protested but he ignored it as he followed Mycroft out of the building. The black town car slid into traffic and made for Surrey. Sherlock rubbed at his upper lip as he stared out at the passing city. He felt Mycroft’s gaze on him and resisted the urge to stare back. He wouldn’t believe John was dead until he saw the body himself and checked.

“Why did you leave for two and a half years?”

Sherlock turned and looked at Mycroft through the darkness of the car. The sun had long set and the only light came from the passing streetlamps. Mycroft was staring out of his window and his finger was tapping on the window sill.

“Remember how I call myself the consulting detective?”

At Mycroft’s noise of acknowledgement, Sherlock turned and looked back out his window.

“I played a game with a man that called himself the consulting criminal. He was good. He outplayed me at the beginning but I won in the end,” Sherlock replied quietly and let the silence fill the car. “If you call this winning.”

“Will you be able to go back to your time stream?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. “John did this and now John is dead. I’m going with a no.”

“So why do you need to see his body?”

Sherlock bit down on his tongue before releasing it. “I just do, Mycroft. I need...need to see the unfortunate outcome of my harsh words.”

Mycroft was silent for the remainder of the car ride. It was pitch black by the time they reached the morgue of Surrey. Mycroft had called ahead and ensured that someone would be there to allow them entrance. Sherlock was usually comfortable in morgues but this visit left a sour sensation in his abdomen. The poor lighting cast Mycroft and himself in a sickly pallor and their steps echoed loudly as they followed the third shift pathologist. The pathologist scanned the small grey doors and announced when he found the correct one. Sherlock slowly approached as he opened the door and pulled out the heavy metal slab with the sheet covering a body. Mycroft motioned the pathologist away and they stepped back to give Sherlock privacy as he reached for the edge of the sheet.

Taking a slow deep breath, Sherlock pulled back the sheet and watched as John’s face became visible. Sherlock grunted softly like he had been hit as he took in the lifeless face. Part of his mind just kept repeating ‘He’s asleep. Wake him up.’ But Sherlock knew this wasn’t sleep. Logically he knew he was viewing a dead John. But this wasn’t John anymore. What made John John was gone. This was just a husk; a shell that was missing the most important piece. It was missing John-ness. A drop of liquid landed on his hand and he reached up to brush angrily at the tears. He never once cried during his two and a half years gone. He wasn’t about to start now. When they wouldn’t do any him any good. The John in this timeline was dead. He didn’t have access to the John from his timeline that put him here. He was stuck here.

Sherlock sighed and reached out to gently brush his fingertips against John’s cool cheek.

“Sherlock, how wou-”

Sherlock waited for Mycroft to finish asking his question. When it was obvious he had become distracted, Sherlock turned and looked at his brother. Mycroft’s lips had frozen in the shape of a word and both he and the pathologist next to him were still as stone. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he slowly walked up to Mycroft and waved a hand in front of his face. Movement from the corner of his eye pulled his attention to the set of double doors that they had come through. Dirty blonde hair had just disappeared around the corner; dirty blonde hair that Sherlock was very familiar with. Running out of the room, he hesitated before hearing footsteps echoing down the hallway from up ahead. Passing a wall clock, he stopped and stared at it. The face hands never moved. Time was frozen.

Starting to walk again, Sherlock followed the sounds of footsteps and turned the corner to see the building’s door snick shut. He hit the door at a run and burst into the night air. There, leaning against the street lamp was John Watson. Alive John Watson. Just as Sherlock first saw him in the flat. He greedily drank in the sight of John and knew he must look like an idiot. Standing there, gaping like an idiot and unable to speak. The night was quiet around them but Sherlock didn’t care.

“John.”

“Still wish you had never met me, Sherlock?” John asked quietly and slid his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock took a deep breath and felt it catch in his throat. He couldn’t screw this up.

“I never should have said that, John. You were right to be angry with me. I should have taken everything you were yelling at me; taken it and rejoiced in the knowledge that you were yelling at me. I would happily take you yelling at me, as long as you never stop. Never stop talking to me, yelling at me, fussing at me, lecturing at me, because that means you’re still here...with me. And I never want to lose that. I never want to lose you,” Sherlock said and slowly approached John.

He stepped into the cocoon of light from the streetlamp and stopped right in front of John.

“I reacted badly. Sending you here was a bad idea, but you caught me off guard. I wanted to make you hurt like you hurt me,” John said quietly and reached out to gently finger Sherlock’s coat.

“But how, John?”

John shrugged and looked around them before looking up at Sherlock. “Magic.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but John was obviously serious.

“Magic?”

“I’m a powerful Mage. I can control time. Alter events. That’s how I did this.”

Sherlock didn’t care if he was a hedgehog, platypus, dragon or magician. He was his John and he wasn’t going to let him go again. He gently grabbed John’s face and bumped their foreheads together as his eyelids fluttered shut.

“I don’t care what you are or what you can do. You’re John, my John and I’m not letting you go that easily. I love you.”

John reached up and lightly kissed him. “Then stop me.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion a moment before John touched his forehead. Something slammed into his body like he had run into a brick wall. He felt like he was falling again. But falling where? With a gasp his eyes popped open and realized he was back in the flat. John’s eyes were just shifting to pale blue. Without caring, Sherlock dove forward and grabbed at John’s hands. Electricity tore up Sherlock’s arms and a cry was wrenched from his lips as his legs buckled and he slid gracelessly to his knees. The electricity faded away slowly leaving him panting and the flat was suddenly quiet. Slowly opening his eyes, he looked up at John and met his normal blue eyes.

“I love you. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was nothing before you and you are everything to me. You were the only thing keeping me sane during the last two and a half years. My mobile is filled with pictures of you and pictures that you took and texts that we exchanged before I left. Please don’t leave me with only that. It was just a teasing taste of you and I can’t live with only that anymore. I love you and need you. Please,” Sherlock whispered and lowered his head to press his forehead into John’s abdomen.

His hands were flexing on John’s hands and felt his arms moving to follow John’s movements. Their joined hands moved to Sherlock’s neck where John’s thumbs rubbed just under his ear at the jaw hinge. John lowered himself to his knees and smiled weakly as Sherlock nuzzled at his neck.

“I need you too, Sherlock. More than I deserve.”

 


End file.
